The Life and Adventures of Lily Watson
by The Laugh Master
Summary: Selected insights in the life of Lily Watson, John and Mary's daughter. Reveals the various ways in which introducing a child to the Baker Street bunch (to Sherlock in particular) and to a life of detecting crime will be tricky business indeed, and the source of many, many headaches for John. Each chapter will be snapshot of their lives at different ages in Lily's life. In progress
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Lily herself will be more present in later chapters, though it will still mostly focus on Sherlock, John, and Mary. Reviews are lovely.

Disclaimer: Not mine

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John Watson was pacing back and forth in the flat at 221B.

"Should've heard something by now," he muttered. "How long has it been?" He stared irritably at his watch, though the last time he checked it was less than a minute ago.

"42," said Sherlock.

"What?" John turned to look at him.

"42 paces," he clarified, without looking up from the tray of toes he was experimenting on. "In case you were wondering how long it took to wear a threadbare path in the carpet."

John sighed, picking up his phone from the table where it stubbornly refused to ring.

"Yeah, well I'm a bloody nervous wreck, aren't I?"

"Hm, you know what you need?" Sherlock replied, setting down the severed toe and blowtorch he was holding.

"What's that?"

"A case," he said seriously.

John shook his head, smirking. "No, no…"

"I have a new one in."

"No."

"Seems like an interesting one by the looks of things."

"_Sherlock –"_ John looked at him incredulously. "I _can't_. I'm _waiting_ _for the_ _call_!"

"Yes," he agreed, "And you'll still get it while looking at a case." Sherlock grabbed his laptop from the armrest and gestured beside him. "Have a look?"

John sighed, straightening up. "Oh, all right. Guess I might as well. Not going to be doing much of this for a while, anyway."

Sherlock paused as he was clearing away his petri dishes and looked skeptically at John. "Yes, you will."

"What? No-" John started, genuinely surprised. "No, Sherlock… we're having a _baby_. Mary, in the hospital right now, could be giving birth at any moment, if…she hasn't _already_…" he trailed off, nervously picking up his phone.

"So?"

"_So_ we'll have a newborn! Bottles, diapers, being woken up every two hours… I won't have time to work on a case."

Sherlock just continued to smile skeptically at John.

"_What _is that look for?" John demanded in a low voice, as Sherlock started to laugh. "I know that smirk. _Don't you smirk at me, Sherlock Holmes!_"

Sherlock continued to laugh and John, despite himself, began to join in.

"Mark my words," Sherlock assured him, "You'll be back here before you know it."

"No, I…oh, why do I even bother?" John pointed at his laptop. "So what's this case, then?"

"Lady Isabel Anastasia," Sherlock said, pulling up a picture on the computer. The woman had long brown hair, looked to be I her early 30s, and was gazing blankly past the camera. There was something distinctly eerie about her, John realized. Something about her eyes looked haunted, and empty. He shivered.

"She checked into the Rosewood Resort and Spa on a Tuesday night, on a tiny private resort island in the Caribbean. By the following morning, she reported her luggage stolen. They put out a search for it, as she claims she had quite a bit of expensive jewelry in it, but no one finds anything. Not until Jeremy Friedrich, a local boy, turns up with her suitcase the next day, claiming to have found it by the side of the road. Lady Anastasia rewards him, and it all makes for quite a story in the local papers. Here's the photo of them after the luggage was returned."

John watched as Sherlock brought up another picture on his laptop. On a small town's news blog there was another picture of the woman, smiling this time, holding a large lavender luggage case and shaking hands with a 13-year-old kid with glasses and curly hair. John waited for Sherlock to explain what happened next; what crime they had to solve. Did the kid turn up dead somewhere the next day? Maybe the case was stolen again, or perhaps someone had planted a bomb in it?

This explanation didn't seem to be coming, however.

"So what is it then? I mean, that's not exactly a case, is it? Seems like it's kind of a done deal."

Sherlock continued to stare at the picture thoughtfully, with the tips of his fingers pressed together. "There's something wrong with this picture, John. Do you see it?"

John obliged, leaning in and squinting to analyze the picture more carefully. He shook his head, not seeing anything wrong. Except…

"Well, that's an awfully big case," he said.

"Exactly," Sherlock remarked, "The suitcase is…"

"…Too big to carry on a plane," John finished. "She could have checked it?"

"No luggage tag," he pointed out.

John nodded. "Yeah, but so what?"

Sherlock spread his hands incredulously. "So, she can't have brought it with her. Therefore…" he gestured for John to continue.

"Therefore…it can't be the bag that was stolen," he answered slowly. "But," he asked skeptically, "Why would Lady Anastasia reward the kid for returning the wrong case?"

Sherlock smirked. "Why indeed, John?"

They looked at each other, puzzling through the details of the mystery. John felt chills creep up the back of his spine, the feeling he got sometimes when they were working on a case. It happened when the pieces started to fall into place, when a particular detail or clue began to peel back the wallpaper and reveal what was really going on in the world around them. It didn't happen often, but in these moments John could begin to understand why solving crimes was Sherlock's drug of choice.

It was the closest thing to an insight to the mind of his best friend that he had.

Just then, the phone rang. Loudly.

They both jumped.

"That's my…" John began, rummaging for his cell phone.

"…Yeah," Sherlock said.

"Oh god, it's happening. I've got to-"

"End table," he said, where John immediately snatched his phone.

Sherlock took one more look at the picture of Lady Isabel Anastasia before closing his laptop and moving it out of John's way, who was reaching across the table for his jacket.

"Probably just a smuggling deal or something," Sherlock tacked on awkwardly.

"Ah, yup," John answered distractedly, answering the call and pressing the phone to his ear.

Sherlock heard a tinny voice issue forth. "Dr. Watson? It looks like its time for you to return now."

"Right. On my way." Standing rigidly upright, John grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the flat before Sherlock had a chance to wonder what to say next.

Sherlock blew the air out of his cheeks to add some noise to the sudden Saturday-afternoon quietness of the room. He stood up, pacing lazily around the flat. He stopped at the window, watching the speckled sunlight filter in. He traced the windowsill with one finger. There was still a bit of dust there.

He was surprised to find his mind inexplicably filled with the sound of a wailing infant. Images floated by his mind's eye; he saw John and Mary, wearing tired smiles; he saw something pink and wrinkly wrapped in a soft white bundle. He shook his head to dispel the noise, but the mental clutter was particularly stubborn.

He nearly tripped over his own violin and music stand, but when he saw the instrument, he raised it to his shoulder, lethargically plucking the strings. After a moment's hesitation, he raised the bow, and started to play.

_2:29 pm, March 15, 2015_

_Welcome to the world, Lily August Watson_


	2. Chapter 2 - Age 3 Weeks

_I feel like I should be honest- the case Sherlock was working on in the last chapter isn't going to be continued in this one, so I didn't actually have a solution for it. However, if any of you have theories for what was going on with Lady Anastasia, I'd love to hear your ideas!_

_Thanks to everyone who read, followed, or reviewed last chapter, I hope this one is what you are looking for._

Not quite three weeks had passed when Sherlock opened his front door to see John, scowling and looking disheveled on his doorstep.

There was silence.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Three weeks…"

"I know what I said," John interrupted, "But I already thought of all the smart-ass responses you could come out with on the way here, and believe me, I'm in the mood for none of them."

The detective looked skeptical. "Highly unlikely you thought of _all_…"

"_Sherlock_—" John warned.

Sherlock grinned stupidly, knowing it would come across as smugness and serve to further irritate John. He'd been right, of course. One glance told him all he needed to know. John stood rigid, defensive, with his jacket slightly askance on his shoulders. His socks didn't quite match, there were deep shadows under his eyes, and his hands flexed and clenched into fists restlessly. Clearly the newborn had been keeping him up nights, and likely this combined with the woeful existence that was domestic life had finally pushed him to the breaking point this morning, at which point he'd left in a hurry.

Sherlock pushed the door behind him open with one hand and stepped aside.

"Come in, John."

John nodded his thanks and Sherlock followed him inside.

"If it's any consolation, you're not the first to crack under the dull monstrosity of _normal _life," Sherlock uttered, spitting out the word _normal _as if it burned his tongue.

"What? How do you mean?" John asked, as they entered the stairwell.

"Mary's already been by. 'Borrowed' one of my cases last week—"

"_What?_ But she never—"

"Hmm, what was it she told you she was doing? Buying…_socks?_" Sherlock added skeptically.

"_Jesus_."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. He grabbed his coat and scarf from the hall and started to put them on as he sat down at the kitchen table.

"I was actually just about to head out on a case," he said, as John busied about the kitchen making tea. He hadn't been, but one adrenaline junkie in need of a fix recognized another.

"Is that so?" John asked, with what he probably thought was well-disguised eagerness. He poured himself a cup, pausing for a moment to let the steam curl about his exhausted face. "Anything good?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A body found in a locked flat, no sign of forced entry. The autopsy revealed death by pneumonia but the victim's coworkers say he was healthy the day before he went missing."

John nodded. "Where's the case from?"

"Lestrade brought it by a week ago."

"A week ago?" John was surprised. He opened the milk carton and gave it a sniff, before making a face and deciding he wasn't going to risk it. "Been busy, have you?"

Sherlock exhaled a world-weary sigh. "The limitless petulance of my brother has kept me otherwise occupied. It took time to arrange an efficient method of retribution." At a look from John, he elaborated. "Mycroft took my kidneys."

John snorted a laugh.

"I was in the middle of an experiment!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding very affronted.

John shook his head. "So what'd you do then? Fabricate a national emergency, ground all air traffic for the day?"

"Please, a disruption like this calls for a bit more than the basics. I orchestrated a masterpiece."

John nodded, putting the kettle back and sipping his tea, a little scared to know what he'd done if raising the terror alert was _basic_. "And this _masterpiece_ was…?"

"I arranged for Mycroft's staff to have a Bring Your Child to Work day."

"Ok, so…?" John prompted.

"…and then told all the children where Mycroft's secret sweets stash was," Sherlock finished calmly.

John laughed so hard he hurriedly set the milk on the counter so as not to spill it.

Mary had thought that years of training and sneaking across the world with rifles on her back might have made motherhood easy by comparison. She'd been wrong. Mary sighed as she freed a hand to raise the knocker on the door of 221B, setting down her purse, a diaper bag, a bag of bottles and formula, and finally the carrier. Awoken, the baby gave a startled whine.

"Oh, hush, Lily love," she implored, using a free hand to rock the carrier gently, "There's nothing to fret about."

Sherlock opened the door in front of her. "Mary," he exclaimed, gracefully feigning surprise, "John didn't say you were coming."

"Nah, well, he wouldn't have, would he?" Mary said, regrouping her bags and baby paraphernalia. " I figured you boys would be done having your fun by now. What was it today, murder? Domestic terrorism?" she smiled knowingly.

"Armed robbery," Sherlock replied smoothly, "John needed to ease back into the—" His eyes grew wide, faltering as he noticed for the first time the carrier that Mary was stooping to pick back up. His eyes fell upon the tiny pink fist that curled around the edge of the blanket. Sherlock swallowed, looking up, suddenly only able to look anywhere but at the baby. "…. the game," he continued lamely.

"Oh, that's right, you've not met Lily yet, have you?" Mary asked, pulling the plush blanket back an inch to move one of Lily's little hands in a wave. "Say, 'hi, Sherlock!'" The baby looked up at her mother and hiccupped, and looked thoroughly startled by the occurrence.

Sherlock stared at the baby's little nose and grey-blue eyes. It had been one thing to rationalize away the _idea_ of John and Mary having a baby when it had all been theoretical to him. He knew the basics of the process-after all, it was a fairly common occurrence among _normal_ people's lives; John and Mary had obviously joined the teeming masses that decided to give up their time, money, health, and integrity one night in the dark to conceive what would, nine months later, be a squalling brat that lacked fine motor control or powers of speech and needed every concern tended to.

Somehow, his brain found it a degree harder to construct this argument when the product of such foolishness was…breathing at him. And blinking with wide, curious eyes the exact same color as her father's.

"Um, hello," he said, not really aware of the fact he was addressing a baby.

"Uh, Sherlock?" Mary called gently.

"Hm?" he replied distractedly, snapping out of his daze and realizing that he'd held his hand out formally to the carriage for a handshake, out of reflex.

"Three weeks old," Mary continued, laughing, "Bit above her pay grade."

The detective straightened up, blinking quickly. "Right. Yes, of course. Um, come in. John's asleep."

He stepped aside so Mary could pass him into the flat; he followed her up the stairs into the living room where John was fast asleep on the sofa. He and Sherlock had spent several hours dashing about London on his latest case, and they'd returned to the flat to discuss the case and look over some evidence but John had crashed almost immediately upon sitting down.

Mary set her various bags down.

"Would you like some tea? You probably could use it," Sherlock remarked, deducting Mary's appearance in a once-over, "Bags under the eyes, obviously the same clothes you slept in last night, constriction of blood vessels around your wrists and in your eyes suggest dehydration, and I'll just assume you haven't had anymore sleep than John has. You look awful."

"Uh, I—" Mary stammered, at a loss. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment, "Tea would be lovely, thanks."

It was only a minute later, when she was over her incredulousness that Mary realized… _Sherlock_ was making_ tea?_ She peered into the kitchen to check, but her ears had not been deceiving her; he was in fact bustling about the kitchen with his back to her, putting a kettle on the stove. Mary shook herself slightly, picking up the baby carrier and went to go sit on the end of the sofa next to John.

Sherlock had his back to the Watsons, engrossed in the act of making tea, but he was listening as he heard the couch springs squeak and John awoke with a start. He was caught between trying not to pry in on the hushed conversation that followed, and hanging on every word, trying to glean details of these past three weeks of his friend's life that he'd missed.

John's voice came from the other room, quiet and slow with the remains of sleep.

"Mary? Oh…god, I'm sorry. Look, I know I said I was checking in at work…"

"And you really thought I believed you?" came Mary's soft reply. "Please. I saw the look in your eyes days ago, spend too long without your hobby and you get cranky," she teased. They were both silent for a moment, before she added, "You needed an escape."

John smiled, looking away guiltily, grateful that Mary wasn't holding the stress against him like he knew she had every right to. Then his brow furrowed as he remembered what Sherlock had said earlier.

"…As did you," he said.

"What?" Mary asked, deliberately ignorant.

"You weren't buying socks," John said, smirking and half sitting up on the sofa to face Mary properly.

"Ah, that," Mary enthused, her voice laced with quiet humor, knowing full well that she'd be caught out at this, "Well, I _did_ eventually end up picking up socks on the way home."

John studied her, sleepily and affectionately, for a long moment. He shook his head. "Alright. Since I'm in no position to talk, I won't ask. I'll just _assume_," he said, taking Mary's hand in his, "that you weren't running around doing anything too _strenuous_ or _dangerous_ on your day off."

"Who, me?" she exclaimed, copying John's sarcasm, "Running into danger? Never!"

They both smiled.

"Ah, Mary," John sighed, his worry-filled voice barely above a whisper, glancing down at the carrier where Lily was sleeping, "How're we going to raise a kid if we both keep this running-into-danger thing up?"

She answered confidently, "Well, she has an assassin and an army doctor for parents, and if you don't think she's made of the same tough stuff, then you don't know your daughter well enough." At that moment, Lily woke up again and started to cry, rising quickly from a quiet cough to a shrill whine. "See? She agrees with me."

Sherlock stepped back from the counter where he'd been listening and realized he still needed to finish making tea. He grabbed three teacups for the tray. Sherlock was both desperately searching John's words for any sign of irreparable change from the person Sherlock knew, _and_ trying to avert his attention for fear of finding it. It was exhausting. He needed a smoke.

"Tea!" he announced, stepping into the living room and setting down the tray. John and Mary both looked up at him as he came into the room, and god, their faces—they're so unreserved, honest, and genuinely glad to see him when they looked at him, Sherlock thinks they've forgotten exactly how rare it is for people to act like that around him. He could write a book on everything he sees written in their expressions, in all the tiny details of their mannerisms, and it occurs to him that they just _let _him; they know he can pry their secrets out of them if he chose, and he's seen both of them become so defensive and closed off they hide things even from him, and yet, they don't bother.

As he's pondering this remarkable fact, Sherlock took an unnecessarily long path around the room to his chair so as to avoid walking directly by the baby carrier.

John picked Lily up to get her to stop crying, she quieted quickly once settled against his shoulder. After checking to make sure that nothing was wrong, he rocked her gently to calm her down, closing his eyes. Sherlock took the opportunity to study John, his eyes habitually darting back and forth to pick up any important detail. He saw the same exhaustion that John had been sporting when he first arrived, abated now with the help of some rest, but Sherlock was surprised to also see such relaxed contentment there as well. How could John and Mary love this 8-pound bundle of ear-splitting noises and weird smells so much that they severely sacrifice all things that make their lives easy? Sherlock couldn't understand, and he really _hated_ not knowing.

The conversation between the three of them ventured on; Sherlock complained about cases and about Mycroft, John and Mary both remarked about the relative ease of solving cases to being the parents of a newborn. Eventually John and Mary began to bicker lightheartedly about whether John's alcoholic sister's apartment or Sherlock's chemical-and-who-knows-what-kind-of-assorted-body-parts laden flat would be the least safe environment for a 3-week-old child.

Sherlock began to lose track of the conversation, and when his gaze fell again upon little Lily, he realized what it was that he found so off-putting about the baby. He couldn't learn anything about her. Most people, or more accurately most adults, he could look at and with one glance learn all he needed to know about how they lived, the various influences of their lives and what mattered to them. Most people walked around with their whole life stories, private details and horrifying secrets included, written all over their faces without ever knowing it. But Lily…she was like a blank slate. She hadn't lived long enough yet to accumulate all the habits, hardships, and indulgences of life that showed on everyone else's faces.

He tried to formulate his normal detection.

_Appearance: Laying in cradle, wide-eyed, wearing a tiny yellow jumper, covered in a fuzzy white blanket of child-size proportions_

_Indicates: ?_

He tried again. There had to be something for him to learn.

_Observation: Child's sleeve folded up a bit at the hem, remnants of a fingerprint in talcum powder, child smiling and babbling happily_

_Conclusion:…Recent diaper change? _ He was unaware of how these things worked. Was that a normal occurrence in the daily life of a child this size? He was fairly certain it was. In any case, he'd learned what Lily was to him.

A puzzle. One he'd keep his eye on. And god help anyone that ever tried to harm or cheat Lily in the game, because (not unlike many cases Sherlock worked when he and John were flatmates) he was pretty sure it would destroy John should Sherlock fail to prevent it. And he simply would not allow that to happen.

Sherlock carried on the conversation with John and Mary. All in all he found emotions like the ones that he'd had swinging back and forth all day exhausting, so he was more than a little relieved when Mrs. Hudson arrived to steal the attention, with many a coo over the baby of "Ooh, isn't she lovely!," and, "She really does have her mum's eyes, dear," and so forth. Pretty soon Sherlock was excusing himself to his room as Mary was bundling Lily up in another layer she'd brought along (as the temperature had dropped a few degrees since they arrived).

Their fond farewells followed him all the way upstairs, through his thoughts for the rest of the evening, and into his dreams.


	3. Chapter 3: Age 3 Years

A/N: So, it's been a _year_ since I last updated this. Hey, at least that gives me a better track record than the show, right? Oh well. I'd promise the next section would be out sooner, but I honestly have no idea. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Enjoy!

Mary was so surrounded by noise that she barely heard the phone ring. She ran past the pot on the stove (which was boiling over), the timer (which was going off), the TV (which was blaring child cartoons to Lily's giggling delight), and a bunch of toys to a pile of laundry which she dug through to retrieve the phone.

"Mary Watson speaking," she answered.

"_I know who you really are,_" the voice rasped.

Mary stopped, paralyzed. She heard the echo of her own pulse rushing in her ears; she could swear the room got several degrees colder than it had been a moment ago.

"Who is this?" she questioned, her voice sharp and dangerous.

"_All you need to know,"_ the voice replied, "_Is that I'm someone with access to all the information necessary to destroy you. I know who you were, the things you've done, the people you've killed, and the lengths you've gone to hide it."_

Mary swallowed. "What do you want?"

"_Well, if you'd like to buy back your information, I would allow you to make an exchange at the station at Coventry and Whitcomb at exactly 3 pm this afternoon for, say…50 thousand pounds_? " came the leisurely reply.

"You must be out of your mind if you think I'm falling for that."

"_Oh, this is no time for games, Mrs. Watson. I think we can agree that any price is small compared to facing the life sentence you'd get if the government was privy to the details of your fascinating history. Oh, and in case you didn't know,_ the voice sighed heavily and continued," _Nothing good ever happens to the children of murderers."_

And with that, Mary saw red. It was enough for her to momentarily abandon her own fear and switch to the calm, professional mindset she'd been trained to have.

"I'll be there," she responded coldly, and ended the call without waiting for a reply.

She'd handled plenty of missions like this before. All Mary had to do was think. If the unknown caller really did have her data and was looking for ransom, it was unlikely he backed it up or already uploaded it. The caller's terms were simple, that of a basic hostage situation, and didn't follow the style of any organization she knew. If that was true, then it was likely that the caller was acting alone, or with very few other people. They could hardly be well-armed, at least not to the level she was equipped to deal with. In that case, all she needed to do was scope out the drop site, come prepared, and take back whatever copy of her data they had.

She was already reaching for the weapons she kept locked in the flat, her plan laying itself out before her in her mind, when she stumbled over a wrinkle in the plan.

"Mummy!" Lily called from the other room, where her show had just ended, "Mum_my_, is it lunchtime yet? I hungry!"

Mary turned slowly to look at Lily, thinking hard. Taking Lily with her was out of the question, but finding someone to watch her on such short notice would be difficult. Everyone she knew (mostly John's friends) were doctors and would be at work… And Mike Stanford was still teaching…

"Not just yet, love," she said with a smile, heading to her weapons lockup behind a picture frame in the hall, "We're going on a little trip today."

"Trip?" Lily questioned, standing up quickly and nearly tripping over her scattered toys. "I wanna go! Where, where, where?!" she chanted.

"It's a surprise," Mary answered, pulling a gun out of the wall and

(double-checking the safety) holstered it behind her belt discreetly. "Can you pick out three toys to bring with you? Only _three_."

Lily jumped with a clatter, scooping up armfuls of toys. Mary returned through the kitchen, turning off the stove as she went, and grabbed a sleeve of crackers and a bag of carrot sticks she'd took out earlier for Lily's lunch. Lily returned with her pink Minnie Mouse backpack (with a matching lunchbox and thermos that she'd begged for in the store. Mary sighed. John couldn't refuse her anything.) It was stuffed with toys. Mary took out enough things to make room for a change of clothes, tissues, and a pack of juice boxes. She handed Lily her snack and held out the bag for her to put her arms in the straps, which she did, babbling away excitedly. Then she helped lily into her shoes and zipped up her coat.

Mary stuck out her hand for Lily to take. "Ready to go?" she asked.

"Let's go!" Lily called, tugging on her hand and making for the door. Mary smiled and locked and double bolted the door behind them. She scrawled a note on the door for John, just in case he returned before them, which simply read _Call Me_.

Letting Lily go to scamper down the stairs ahead of her, Mary dug her phone out and called Sherlock on speed dial.

Lily stood in the living room of 221B, as downstairs the door closed behind Mary on her way out.

Sherlock had never seen Mary active in whatever exactly her former career had been, but in his idle imagination he had pictured the hardened veteran of the crime world she used to be. He'd pictured a righteous woman who'd become sneaky to survive, and manipulative to make her own way in the world. Perhaps a sniper rifle per shoulder, and the sharp eyes of someone who'd been trained to use them.

Lily, her armor a pink backpack stuffed with snacks and her rifle a plush rabbit dangling out of her hand, was the spitting image of this version of Mary. She had impressively rigid posture for her age, and made good use of all two and a half feet of height available to her. Sherlock found Lily's gaze as calculating as his own as he surveyed her.

John obviously thought he'd been subtle about having thus far successfully managed to avoid ever leaving Lily alone with him. Perhaps this discretion had been done to spare his feelings, but as Sherlock had less experience with childcare than he did with archaeoastronomy, this suited him just fine. With a glance at Lily, Sherlock realized the unprecedented nature of their current situation had not escaped her notice either.

"Want to… play…something?" Sherlock offered feebly, certain he was doing this wrong.

Lily just glared at him suspiciously.

"You left her _where?!_" John raged, as he stormed up the sidewalk after Mary.

"It was an emergency," Mary insisted, "Sherlock was the only one available."

"An emergency? Excuse me for thinking our daughter being left with Sherlock is more of an emergency than your—" He cut off abruptly as Mary sent him a look that could melt steel.

Mary shook her head. "Trust me, he won't let anything happen to her."

"How do you know?" John exclaimed, "He's Sherlock."

"Exactly. John, listen to me– " She stopped and turned to face him, grabbing him by his shoulders. "—Lily matters most to you, _you_ matter most to Sherlock – and _don't_ bother denying that part," she added, holding up a finger to silence John as he was about to interrupt. "Point is, _on his life,_ Sherlock will protect her."

John contemplated this for a moment as they both continued to hurry down the sidewalk.

Mary continued, "Now, I know 221B is hardly the _best_ environment for a child—"

"You're damn right it's not!" John spluttered, happy to go back to being cross instead of oddly pleased.

"—But the sooner we finish this the sooner we'll be back to pick her up. I didn't want to leave her with Sherlock at our place either, in case these hitmen try to return there before we get to them."

John sighed resignedly. "As long as Lily doesn't get at Sherlock's sugar bowl," he muttered, "Last I checked he kept eyeballs in there."

Sherlock had just been beginning to suspect that parenthood was not _actually_ possible without more limbs than humans were normally equipped with, when Lestrade called to beg for his help on a case.

Sherlock had been chasing Lily around the flat after she'd managed to find some of his fragile glass test tubes filled with an even more fragile experiment. He'd just plucked them from her fingers when the phone rang. He picked up the phone and sank into his armchair, which allowed Lily to immediately embark upon using him as a human jungle gym.

"I'm kind of—ow!" Sherlock swatted away little hands as they reached up to tug at his curls. "—busy."

"Well, so are we. And don't play hard to get or any of that rubbish, you're not impressing anyone. And what are you so busy doing, anyway? I'm sure whatever illegal substances you're working on can wait."

"Wow, Lestrade, you really make a compelling case for me to rush to your aid."

Lily shrieked a laugh, and jumped off Sherlock's lap, running dizzy circles around his chair.

Lestrade sighed. "Look, will you just come by the Yard for a minute? We have some evidence for you to look at and a witness here who won't be patient with us for much longer."

"Well, boohoo for you," Sherlock said, voice dripping in biting sarcasm, " But I can't. As I told you _despite_ your belittling, I'm in the middle of something important."

He could practically hear Lestrade's patience cracking amid the buzzing static on the phone.

"Sherlock… do this for us and I'll let you in the evidence lockup for that old Havemeyer case you've been nattering on about."

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a thin line, considering silently.

"…Do we have a deal?" Lestrade pressed.

"Scotland Yard _only_. If you have a problem on a crime scene you're on your own." Sherlock gritted out.

"So you _will_ come. Excellent." Lestrade, sounding relieved, hung up the phone.

Sherlock tapped his phone to end the call and stared down in mild bewilderment at the bright-eyed, sticky-fingered creature attempting to climb up the back of his chair.

This was going to be a long day.

After much convincing and chasing her around the flat to get her to put her jacket on, Sherlock finally got Lily out the door and on their way to the Yard. Lily's suspicion of him had waned once it became clear that Sherlock shared none of her parents' reservations about giving her sweets. Trying to keep her busy and resume his casework, he was quite happy to negotiate her silence with a packet of chocolates.

Once mollified, she had resumed the usual unguarded behavior she displayed around him when her parents were present. Sherlock was grateful for this sudden renewed trust, as it made bringing her along on this trip to Scotland Yard much easier.

He struggled to keep a careful eye glued to Lily as she kept bounding ahead of him on the sidewalk, chasing pigeons and cheerfully greeting anyone who would meet her eye. He experienced a brief and unexpected flare of panic as he lost sight of her in a rush of people coming up from the underground station.

Sherlock rushed ahead, then saw that she had paused at the curb and was waiting for him, rocking back and forth on her heels.

"Come on, this way," he said in a rush, as he whipped his head around to check for traffic before stepping out into the street. He felt something soft and cold brush his hand, and looked down, startled.

Lily was grasping his hand, her small fist only big enough to wrap tightly around the ends of his fingers.

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked.

Without looking up at him, Lily answered, "Daddy says we hafta hold hands when crossing the street."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this.

"Does he. I guess _Daddy_ would say that, now wouldn't he?"

She payed him no mind, unaware of his amusement at the phrase as she skips over pedestrian crosswalk lines.

He left his hand in her grasp until they reached the end of the road.

"Fifty _thousand _pounds!" John exclaimed. "What's going to happen when they find out you don't have the money?"

"I _am_ going to have the money," Mary answered. "We need to make a stop." She veered right and entered a bank that John had passed on the sidewalk.

"What do you mean, you have the money?" John asked, his voice lowering as they entered the near-silent, glass-walled bank. Mary dug a key out of her pocket and presented it to the clerk, who handed her a form to sign.

"I _mean_ I have the money. Well, sort of." The clerk directed her to a courtesy room and went to retrieve her safe deposit box from the vault. "Can I use your briefcase? Looks much better to carry cash in than a backpack."

John followed her into the small room and closed the door behind them. "Mary, stop changing the subject. Look, I'm not going to ask about what info they have, alright? But I need to know what we're getting into here. You want to explain how you _sort of_ have fifty thousand pounds?"

There was a knock on the door, and the attendant entered with the box. Mary waited until the door clicked shut once more.

She unlocked the box, clearing her throat. "I have fifty thousand in counterfeit bills."

"Holy mother of…" John watched, wide-eyed, as Mary nonchalantly pulled stacks of cash out of the box.

He shook his head, disappointed. "I thought you'd given up that life."

"I _have_," Mary exclaimed, "But for my past to _stay_ gone, I have to take precautions, and the less you know about them the better."

"But what if I _need_ to know? If these people put Lily in danger…"

"Do you seriously think I'd let that happen?" she snapped.

John could only stare at her in response.

"Tree! 'Nother tree! Mailbox! Birdy in a tree!" Lily chanted, from where swung on Sherlock's arm. She had taken to naming things as they walked past. Sherlock had taken to tuning her out.

"Shiny building! More shiny building! Door! P'liceman?"

He dragged them through the doors of Scotland Yard. Lestrade was already in the lobby waiting for him.

"Oh good, you made it. Listen, I'll show you what we've got in a bit, but I've got a witness upstairs that's about to walk out on me and… why do you have a child with you?" Lestrade's eyes went wide as he spotted Lily.

"Hi," Lily said, before hiding herself behind a long fold of Sherlock's coat.

"Because I do," Sherlock answered testily, striding off, "Now, what have you failed to get out of this witness?"

Lestrade put out a hand to stop him.

"Seriously Sherlock, please don't tell me we should've put out an Amber Alert because of you. I know you normally consider the law beneath you, but _there are limits_, even for you!"

"For heaven's sake, I didn't _kidnap_ her, she's John and Mary's daughter."

"_This_ is Lily?" he asked, surprised, leaning closer to Lily a small wave back. "Blimey, I haven't seen her since her first birthday. She's really grown." He straightened up. "And the Watson's… knowingly left her with you, did they?" he asked, smile freezing on his face.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "I believe it was an emergency of sorts."

At this, Lestrade looked up in genuine concern. "Oh no, not something we'll have to get involved in, is it?"

"Just a personal matter," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Right well, our evidence isn't exactly age appropriate, but luckily Molly's here doing some consulting of her own for me. I think she's just doing paperwork today, we'll see if she can look after Lily for a few."

They proceeded to his office, and he opened the door slowly.

"Molly? We have another visitor." He gestured behind him, as the other two followed him in. "This young lady is Lily Watson, if you can believe it."

"Lily?" Molly exclaimed with a smile, coming out from behind the desk and bending down to her level. "Well, aren't you all grown up?"

Lily frowned slightly, considering this.

"I _this_ much grown up," she said, holding a hand up level with the top of her head.

"Coventry and Whitcomb, Coventry and Whitcomb…." John muttered to himself, as he walked around that very intersection. The thing was, there was no station here. The map of the underground hadn't marked anything at this spot. But, once he'd dug up maps a few years older, there _did_ appear to be a station here, which led him to believe it had been abandoned. Now the only trouble was finding it.

He scanned the area one more time, almost hoping he was mistaken, but there wasn't so much as a bus stop here. Then he spotted it. A rusty old staircase and a pair of unmarked metal doors. It looked more like it led to a basement than a subway station, but nothing else was unmarked in the area.

John descended the staircase furtively, even though no one was around to see him.. He noticed the rusty lock on the door had been broken off. He nudged the door open with his briefcase, and it squeaked on its hinges as it swung inward.

He strolled into the abandoned subway station. The sound of his footsteps echoed back from far corners of the space he couldn't even see. The station was bare and dark, lit only by a string of work lights. John peered around. He cleared his throat.

"If you're here, you might as well come out," he called. He stepped around the concrete pillars, wary of the edge of the drop off, where unfinished rail lines lay a few feet down. No one answered him.

"I'm here on Mary's behalf," he added. "I have what you asked for."

A creak at the other end of the hall. A rusty construction door swung open, and a heavily-covered figure walked out.

He approached John with a lumbering gait, gun at his side and scarf pulled up leaving just his eyes visible. John swallowed nervously as the man stopped a few yards from him.

"Please, I- I don't want any trouble. You can have the money, just let me go with the data."

"D'ya have the cash?" the masked man grunted.

"Yes, I do," John said, holding open the suitcase. "It, It should be enough. Well, it is, I counted it, but maybe you want to count it as well—"

"Shut up," the man barked. "Put it down and back up."

John nodded, starting to rest the case on the ground, then paused. "You sure you don't want to look at it? Maybe I should just double check…"

"Back up! Now!" The man gestured with his gun. John did as told.

The man strolled up to the case and rifled through the cash, apparently satisfied. He picked up the case, then plucked a silver flash drive from his pocket. "Think I'll be keeping this as well," he said, "Seeing as you paid so well for it, I bet someone else will too."

"Oh you lied, did you? I'm shocked," John snorted, his eyes darting briefly behind the other man before focusing back on his face. "I really wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Like you're going to do anything about it," the man sneered. "Why not?"

Inches behind his skull, there came a soft click as Mary released the safety on her pistol.

"Because you're way out of your league, pal," she said.

The masked man froze. John's eyes widened as he saw the thief's hand creep toward his gun. He hurriedly reached for his own weapon, but before either of them could draw, Mary pulled back her arm and clocked the man across the temple. He dropped like a stone between them.

"Nice stalling," Mary commented.

"Thanks."

"'You may want to _count_ the money' though, really?"

"Shut up."

After receiving a text from Sherlock, John and Mary made their way to Scotland Yard by 3:15. As they entered Lestrade's office, they saw Sherlock deep in conversation with Lestrade, with Lily sitting on top his desk, scribbling on a spread of paper. Molly looked up first to greet them.

"Hello Watsons! Good to see you."

They bid their greetings, at which Lestrade also looked up.

"There you two are, I heard there was a personal emergency, is everything alright?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, everything's fine," Mary assured.

"Taken care of," John added, discreetly nudging his handgun further in his jacket out of sight.

John rushed to Lily and began fussing over her. Mary fussed as well, Sherlock noticed, but she was more subtle about it. John looked around the room, for the first time noticing the state of the office, with drawings and markers and toys spread al over the desk and floor.

"Have you actually been working today?" John asked Lestrade.

"I don't know what you mean," he answered in mock offense, "I've been meeting with my interior decorator all afternoon." He gestured a palm towards Lily with a grand smile.

The interior decorator in question was holding her latest masterpiece up to her mother's nose. It was a bountiful mess of colors, scribbled on the back of what appeared to be a police report.

"Mummy, mummy, look, I drew this!"

"I see that, darling, it's lovely. You made these all yourself?" Mary asked.

John saw that indeed, some drawings had already made their way onto the walls. He watched Sherlock peruse files in the corner, pretending he wasn't paying attention to what was going on. John made his way up to him and cleared his throat.

"I reckon you might be mad about, well, you know. We've never left Lily with you before."

"Hm, mad? I'm not mad," Sherlock replied airily. He turned over the paper he was holding and stared intently at the other side. John couldn't exactly see over his shoulder, but it didn't look like he was reading it.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," John replied. "Anyway, I'm sorry. The only excuse I'm going to give is that Mary and I are paranoid new parents, you know? But that doesn't mean it was personal. Doesn't mean we don't trust you."

John shifted his feet. Sherlock still hadn't turned around.

"And _not_ that we're going to make a habit of this, but… you came through when it counted. So…uh, thank you."

John waited for Sherlock to answer.

"John, did you know that 90 percent of all hostage cases …"

John snorted in disbelief, walking away.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said, turning around.

John paused for _just_ long enough for Sherlock to know he heard him.


End file.
